


Falsetto Shatter

by Nyanoka



Series: Dove Descending [3]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Canon ages, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Mental Illness, M/M, Non-consensual sex, Physical Abuse, Pining, Sexual Coercion, Sloppy Seconds, Stream of Consciousness, Trans Male Character, Underage Sex, Unreliable Narrator, Vaginal Sex, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: It's in the things that Piers doesn't say and in the things that he avoids.Personally, Raihan wishes that he would simply be more upfront about everything.A simple "no" would suffice.
Relationships: Kibana | Raihan/Masaru | Victor, Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers, Kibana | Raihan/Nezu | Piers/Masaru | Victor, Masaru | Victor/Nezu | Piers
Series: Dove Descending [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974847
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Black Bile

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have re-read Wuthering Heights before doing this (lovely novel, one of my favorites, and I love Catherine/Heathcliff so much...wonderfully written couple and characters), but I think dysfunction in fiction is the best...
> 
> It was going to be much happier originally and less...whatever this is, but I got pretty saddened by stuff and Twitter/Tumblr discourse...again...ah...those places give me headaches and sadness...
> 
> Please consider the perspective of this fic as well and whose viewpoint it is from. That influences how events are relayed in this fic. I don't consider this "dark or disturbing" enough according to my tastes for "Dead Dove: Do not Eat" but it's better to have it than have tags overlooked I think...
> 
> All chapters are done and will be posted on a schedule. It was going to be one fic originally, but it ended up too long for that.

Despite popular opinion, they’re not together, not in the truest sense anyhow.

Friends certainly—they’ve shared enough beers and the occasional cigarette together for that, grey smoke wafting upward and away from their empty glasses and half-finished joint passed carelessly between fingers in-between each rise and fall of their chests, each inhale and each exhale—and fuck-buddies even more certainly.

They’ve fucked enough times to be called that—sometimes aggressive, sometimes slow, and almost always at Piers’s behest, calls coming semi-periodically, not quite predictable yet not entirely unpredictable.

There isn’t a set hour, a set day, or even a set place for those particular occasions, some occurring in the dilapidated back alleys of Spikemuth and others in his tidy air-conditioned apartment in Hammerlocke. Rather, there are only set moods, set reasons, calls coming because of agitation, stress needing to be relieved or even simply because of boredom, time needing to be passed.

It’s never about feelings, nothing like the movies or even children’s fairy tales, simplistic in their lesson and entirely clean, lacking in troubles, in matters concerning affection.

Raihan doesn’t quite know the hour, the set time, for when Piers calls, but he knows the reasons—stress, boredom, but never anything having to do with feelings.

Despite popular opinion, popular desire, they aren’t together.

Though, those, public opinions, aren’t quite right either, details too muddied by the lurid or the wistful. He’s read enough tabloids, seen enough headlines, letters printed in gaudy red and detailing some outlandish lie, and he’s read enough fan theories, enough fanfictions.

Headline after headline, forum post after forum post, and theory after theory with the occasional story thrown in.

Naturally, he doesn’t mind them, the stories in particular, a consequence of both his profession and his tastes.

They’re funny—imaginative and even sweet at times, not quite realistic but not irredeemable by any stretch of the word, more enjoyable than something in bad taste. Hell, he prefers them that way—hopeful and sweet, mushy and lovestruck, rather than boringly bland and realistic, infatuation blooming over years and ignored rather than in minutes or even seconds or perhaps simply never sprouting.

Really, who looks for realism, the mundane and drudgery, in fiction? He certainly doesn’t.

But still, nonetheless, he knows the reasons for why Piers calls and the reasons for when he _stops_ calling.

Piers is always the one who calls first, always agitation or boredom driving, and Piers is always the one who stops first, always because of some new lover, some official boyfriend or girlfriend.

It isn’t a broadcasted detail—Piers isn’t an open person when it comes to his personal life, more of the opposite really—but he knows him well enough to understand his proclivities. Despite appearance and despite the expectations of his profession, Piers isn’t a libertine, too loyal and too thoughtful if overly neurotic.

He doesn’t especially enjoy those periods of time, phone silent and texts sparse of that particular invitation, always a simple, succinct “Are you available?” followed by a fumble as he moves to reply, nails clicking on the screen with each tap.

It isn’t that they _don’t_ spend time together otherwise.

They do, sometimes by their lonesome, uncovered coffee table stacked with glinting, green glass, bottles drained of alcohol, with the television flipped to some third-rate channel, noise droning lowly and words forgotten in the buzz and their conversation, half-baked bullshit about some event or joke or another, and sometimes surrounded by friends, laughter rising and not quite alone as he wishes.

Whatever the case, it isn’t quite the same: too crowded, too noisy, and too lacking in the intimacy of a relationship, a true one and not the pretense of the one they have now.

Despite popular opinion, popular desire, they aren’t together as they should be.

They talk enough, they care enough, and they know enough—secrets confided in the half-dim light of his apartment, sometimes slurred and sometimes not, words clear and vulnerable, and hand held in his, grip tight and flesh speckled with spots of red and violet, akin to chrysanthemums blooming.

They should be together, and yet they aren’t.

Certainly, he’s brought it up before, sometimes in the minutes after they’ve fucked and sometimes in the hours when they meet, question always given within the privacy of closed walls and occasion attended by a mere two.

And as always, he’s met with the same flickering gaze, eyes glancing elsewhere and shoulders tensing slightly before a curt reply comes.

“Can we talk ‘bout it on a different day?”

The same reply, always the same nine words given in the same tone and in the same accent and the same half-excuse, and always the same awkwardness that soon descends after, silence only broken by the crowing of the clock, hands ticking like the threading of a sewing needle through a shirt tear, and the sound of a closing door, clothes changed into and belongings having been picked up.

Piers never stays on the days when they fuck in his apartment, home tidy and cleaned and lacking in messiness, the scent of snuffed cigarettes and cheap cologne, that characterizes Piers’s room.

And he finds himself staying on the days when they fuck in Piers’s apartment, never in his room but in the guest room.

He wouldn’t mind it, rejection, but that never comes. Instead, he only feels the bite, the prickling nips of uncertainty and possibility, and sees the what-ifs, the things he couldn’t quite have—purpling love bites dotting a pale collarbone and neck, poorly hidden, the slight curl of a smile at some text, inane most likely, and the lightness of his step, body straightened and not slouching nearly as much.

He would be fine with rejection if only it came, bitter as medicine but still a cure, slow-working, for everything he feels.

But still, it isn’t all bad, not entirely. At the very least, he knows when Piers’s relationships end, always on a near-set schedule and never lasting a day more than three months.

His breakups, much like the beginnings of his relationships, always come with set signs—the furrow of the brow, an even quicker temper, mouth set into a frown and voice low, growling and guttural like a rabies-infested dog, and an increasing number of phone calls and texts, sex rougher than even before and often ending with him gasping, fucked into the bed or perhaps against a wall as slender, pale fingers dig into his hips, thrusts violent and more intent on releasing pent-up anger than for any sort of pleasure.

He’s never been gentle in the moments when they’ve fucked, but those, the days after another failed relationship, are always harsher.

Perhaps it’s a fear of disrupting their friendship or even simply, a fear of confrontation and the ensuing blowout, but Piers never answers his questions on those days either.

Too demanding, too quick-tempered, and too neurotic.

Piers, despite what most of the gossip and forums posts say, fantasize rather, is a difficult man, a bit self-absorbed and a bit oblivious to the feelings of others. It isn’t intentional malice he thinks, but it isn’t the easiest set of traits to deal with or to love.

And perhaps it’s strange, a testament to his own oddness and to his own masochism, but those are the traits he adores the most.

Certainly, he could adore his kindness, the quiet love that exudes whenever his sister is around, his wit, humor dry and biting, and a plethora of other little traits and quirks that he keenly knows, but he doesn’t, not to the extent of his faults anyhow.

They, Piers’s more admirable traits, aren’t quite as interesting as his worst—that odd blend of vitriol and fervor, anxiety and neediness interlaced with a practiced confidence.

It’s strange perhaps, but isn’t it admirable, expected, for one to love someone at their worst?

Whatever the case, he doesn’t especially mind Piers’s faults. He only minds the days, the wait, when Piers stops calling—each calendar date then impatiently scratched out with a red felt-tip marker.

He only needs to wait, no more than than three months and signs of another nearing end always apparent.

That is how it has always been, invitations ending with a relationship’s beginning and invitations beginning once more upon a relationship’s end.

That is, until it isn’t.


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in the things that Piers doesn't say and in the things that he avoids.
> 
> Personally, Raihan wishes that he would simply be more upfront about everything.
> 
> A simple "no" would suffice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what I want to broach next or after the next tbh. I thought about doing a DNKB Hanahaki unrequited love AU for Halloween (ha, not as cute/sad as it sounds; more "guro" and in the vein of this fic than anything else tbh considering which tags I want to nail off for my account with that fic), but my mood hasn't shifted enough for it...I have my opening line done though...
> 
> Or maybe it'll be shmoopy Halloween themed stuff like a Trick-or-Treat thing that isn't horrifying?

He knows when it begin.

The same airiness, steps lighter; the same smile, lips pulled slightly upward at every ding, text incoming and met with a quick reply, fingers tapping eagerly upon a screen; and the same mesh of bruising, purples and reds strewn haphazardly and peeking coyly from beneath his collar.

He assumes it’s a woman this time. The markings are too small to be a man’s and too light in color, a consequence of inexperience or hesitation most likely.

Would it be a blonde this time? Or perhaps a redhead? He knows Piers has a penchant for those. The magazines he had preferred during his younger years are proof enough of that preference, pages flipped carelessly before being handed over to another.

Would they be dainty and slim, colors more reminiscent of summer than the cool hues of winter that Piers prefers? He has never seen, remembered rather, Piers’s partners, only bits and pieces and the remnants—the borrowed shirts, too sporty, lengthy, and brightly colored in comparison to the rest of his wardrobe; the leftovers in his fridge, takeout boxes foreign in comparison to everything around them and food lacking in that heavy, nearly intolerable blend of spices that Piers prefers; and the knickknacks, little gifts shattered and tossed into the kitchen trash can, bag soon tied and tossed outside into the dumpster.

He doesn’t particularly _care_ for what they look like—they would be gone soon enough in a few weeks—but it’s fun enough to imagine, a time-waster for the minutes before he falls asleep, bed lonely and spacious and calendar date slashed through in red, scarlet upon dark black and always starting from the top right corner and ending on the bottom left.

Thus, the doesn’t pay attention to the oddities, the little differences in their routine—no borrowed shirts or jackets, only borrowed scarves and the occasional hat; no cardboard boxes, meals instead entirely home-cooked and packaged neatly into plastic containers or wrapped up in foil and cling wrap; and no little gifts, assortment entirely tasteless and tone-deaf to Piers’s actual interests and only accepted because of infatuation.

Though, it isn’t that there aren’t any. He notices the spice canisters and racks in the kitchen, all new, expensive and long-lasting; the cleanliness of his bedroom, wood floors scrubbed clean, clothes washed and folded neatly into the dresser, and bedsheets and blankets all replaced; and even the little things—fresh-laid eggs, brown shells speckled with darker spots instead of plain grocery store white, bottles of fresh milk, solid metal instead of plastic, and fresh-baked pie placed in a dessert holder on the clean countertop, image more fit for a commercial than for a dingy little apartment in one of Spikemuth’s better-kept complexes.

There are gifts, but they’re all practical, thoughtful in a way the others hadn’t been and all disgustingly, unquestionably domestic.

Nonetheless, he pays it no real mind outside of a simple acknowledge. It would end the same as it always does, relationship discarded and with he answering a phone call at some ungodly hour of the night. Hammerlocke and Spikemuth are only set one route apart after all.

He doesn’t agonize over the differences. He only scratches through the dates, days winding downward, first of the month going into the second then into the third and continuing.

It’s only when they reach the fourth month, days passing before finally nearing fifth, that he begins to worry.

He has never been this happy, mood pleasant and all irritations, minor or otherwise, resolved within a few days or even a few hours’ worth of time. He notices the slight scowl and the signs of course, relationship problems, but they don’t bleed this time, scratches eventually cumulating into an irreparable wound and another relationship's ending.

Instead, they’re bandaged, disinfected and talked through rather than ignored or perhaps shouted out, each little nick and chip healing without scarring rather than festering.

Too moody and too prone to driving nearly everyone away, Piers has never been a particularly happy person.

He has never been happy, truly happy.

Not without him anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been playing so much Genshin Impact lately...I did get Venti as well, so I'm happy...not gonna summon until a shota I like comes along or Diluc appears as focus...not really relevant, but I gotta start on my next fic and project, but Genshin...and FGO farming...
> 
> But still, language plays a lot of focus in this fic alongside ideas of intimacy, appearance, and reputation. Galar is a region themed on appearance after all. There's a lot of "intentionally vague" descriptions and intentional "obscuring' of pronouns for example. Raihan's nature in this is also showing further in this as well, bits and ends that don't quite align. A lot of details aren't quite as "they seem" in this. Though, if one is familiar with the dynamics of abuse and its intricacies, it's rather foreboding I think...those little details and word choices...
> 
> When there is a desire to be loved, it's easy enough to be taken advantage of I think...it's hard to not fall into a rhythm, always seeking familiarity and hard to let go...I decided to go with a "quiet sadness/terror" route with this one...


	3. Yellow Bile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in the things that Piers doesn't say and in the things that he avoids.
> 
> Personally, Raihan wishes that he would simply be more upfront about everything.
> 
> A simple "no" would suffice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of want to post the final chapter on the DLC's release date but that's too far away imo...so the final chapter will probably be up tomorrow or sometime on the weekend/Monday...the final chapter is where the length comes from anyway...

Halfway through the eighth month, he ends up in Spikemuth, minutes away from Pier’s apartment and phone loosely held in hand.

It isn’t a planned visit, more idle whim than anything else, but he doesn’t think Piers would mind. He hadn’t minded the other ones before, greeting always superficially irritable as he opens the door wider before inviting him in. He’s never declined a visit before.

But still, he isn’t rude. He always calls beforehand, dial tone playing before a familiar voice answers, always after four rings.

These are the occasions in which he calls first rather than Piers.

Thus, it surprises him when Piers answers on the second ring, static audible alongside fumbling and alongside a peculiarity, an oddness that doesn’t quite belong in his opinion—voice and words indistinct, unrecognizable outside of a soft highness, too lilting to belong to a man.

Another fumble, awkward, before Piers speaks, breathy and agitated, previous activities obvious.

He couldn’t quite help the curl of irritation, annoyance, that forms at that, feelings only heightened by the content of his words, call ending immediately after.

“Can you visit on a different day? I’m busy.”

Another nine words, message only superficially different from the one he normally hears but no less irritating, hurting, than the others. He wouldn’t mind rejection if it would simply come, blunt and bitter-tasting like raw almond but a cure for what he feels, nonetheless.

Thus, could he be blamed for going against Piers’s wishes? Piers has gone enough times against his after all, overly avoidant and even a bit inconsiderate.

He knows where the key is, buried shallowly in the potted plant by the door, dirt wet and leaves full rather than the dryness and decay that he’s used to. It’s easy enough to dig it out, nails scraping against brown, and it’s easy enough to unlock the door, doorknob soon turning with a light click.

Would it be a blonde? Ringlets curling with a heart-shaped face and freckles dotting upon the nose and cheeks, skin brown-speckled as chicken eggshells? Or a redhead as he speculates? Small-breasted, dainty with wrists encapsulated by slender fingers, and a sweet, trilling voice—akin to birdsong on a spring morning?

He isn’t curious about the face, not truly. With Piers’s temperament, his uncertainty and his faults, they would be gone eventually, another chapter ended and another idea, another concept, tucked away until the next, persona equally unimaginative in taste and much too similar to the last.

He knows Piers well enough for that, creature of routine that he is. He isn’t one to seek change, someone different and someone normal.

Even during their first tryst, he fourteen and Piers two years younger, had been filled with that peculiar contradiction, that uncertainty and certainty—small body shuddering underneath his, thin chest heaving, nails digging into the flesh of his palms, skin broken and bleeding, and voice only a mixture of whimpers and gasps, noises faint and lacking in both words and coherency.

Much like with his requests now, Piers hadn’t acknowledged them then either, neither yes or no, only another hum and another rescheduling, too considerate and too avoidant.

A simple “no” would suffice but that hadn’t come then, and it hadn’t come now over a decade later.

Really, almost anything would be better than the uncertainty of now.

He knows Piers’s living room well enough even with the new additions, blue tablecloth spread and coasters set, and the furniture rearranged, and he knows the hallways, guest room followed by the linen closet and bathroom and master bedroom set at the end of the hallway.

The doorknob turns easily enough underneath his hand. Piers has never been one to lock his bedroom door, habit formed for the nights when Marnie stays, schedule free from League duties, and most likely, for his partner as well.

Piers has never liked being alone—too needy, too demanding, and too fearful, nightly anxieties roaming freely and unhindered by mundanity’s distractions—and he has never liked company, touch and intimacy both invaders rather than comforts.

He dislikes solitude, yet he denies company, bed never shared and partners eventually, always, exiled to the guest room every night.

It’s contradictory—he has never understood it, only tolerated it—but it’s simply another of Piers’s quirks, the little things that made him difficult to love, undesirable for all but deviants.

Nonetheless, everything—the dimness of the hallway, the soft thumps of his steps, and the familiarity, half-strangled and odd—doesn’t quite matter, not as much his own feelings and the outcome, relationship ending and beginning with half-certainty, shells cracking and fractures mended sloppily with excuses and half-lies rather than care and truth.

He expects to find a woman—dainty and doe-eyed and small, everything he isn’t, everything Piers isn’t.

He’s right naturally—he knows Piers and his inclinations well-enough—but only partially so.

Dainty and small, eyes wide in surprise and body trembling lightly because of his intrusion—motions reminiscent of a one of those flighty rabbits, coat a layer of blankets rather than soft fur, and thin frame drawn closely, carefully, against a pale chest—those characteristics are correct, expected for the most part.

The gender and age aren’t, however.

He expects a woman, but it isn’t. It isn’t even a man, too slender because of age, body not yet finished growing and still mostly androgynous, and face still round, childhood not yet entirely shed.

He doesn’t expect a child, face familiar and features objectively plain, softer, in comparison to his own, nor does he expect the closeness of everything—the ease in which Piers breathes, fretfulness entirely dissipated, and the ease of contact, lacking in the wary tautness he has come to know and replaced by a reverent possessiveness, arms wrapped snugly yet gently around a much smaller body.

At the very least, their surprise matches his own.

That, at the very least, is normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rather "soft" in prose I think, but I think the juxtaposition of terror and "softness" is what I like best...
> 
> Though...I'm still undecided on what to do next since Victor and Adult Trio in those playboy bunny suits (nip slips and all) have taken up residence in my head...ah...unfortunate...
> 
> But still, I think more of what Raihan and Piers's relationship actually is has been revealed in this chapter. Though, it's the final chapter that made me take a "Dead Dove: Do not Eat" tag. I don't consider it graphic enough personally, but I'm told my standards are often really off. I consider myself a rather vanilla person...rather strange how Raihan knows where the key is alongside all the other details, isn't it? 
> 
> Whatever the case, maybe I'll do something more straightforward with this 3P pair one day...I still have Raihan/Victor/Leon to knock out to complete my set of Adult Trio/Victor combos (outside of the 4P one anyhow), and I think I want to do an AU for it...maybe age down since I'm told age gaps and aging up are problematic, so let's make them all around Victor's age...


	4. Phlegm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in the things that Piers doesn't say and in the things that he avoids.
> 
> Personally, Raihan wishes that he would simply be more upfront about everything.
> 
> A simple "no" would suffice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah...the final chapter...

“Victor, can you go to the bathroom? Freshin’ up?”

It isn’t a particularly apt way to dismiss Victor, and by the way his Victor’s eyes turn to the doorway and toward him before flickering back to Piers, surprise having dissolved into a familiar wariness and nervousness mostly hidden—hands gripping tightly at the sheets, knuckles prominent alongside the veins, rather than his previous shaking.

A pause descends then, silence awkward, before Piers speaks again, leaning forward, hand coming to stroke through Victor’s hair and voice soft, lacking in the sharp edges he remembers.

“Please? Can you go? I’ll be fine.” More of a murmur, coaxing, than any sort of command, feral and guttural and more beast than man, it shouldn’t cause his chest to tighten as it does. Piers has never been this soft, not with him and not with his past partners. He’s never seen them, not enough to etch them into his memory anyhow, but he has seen the aftermaths after all, apartment dismantled and Piers himself once again withdrawing inward, scowling with lips curled and speech less than understandable, vice and natural nature mixing. “Really, I’ll be fine. Remember to lock the door behind you, alright? Don't want anyone walkin' in by accident.”

Another pause, equally awkward as the last, but thankfully, Victor complies, thin blanket draped over his shoulders and bed creaking as he shifts, bare feet soon meeting wood and white cotton fabric dragging upon the wood with each step.

Even when Victor turns to look back at them, eyes wary and questioning, Piers’s temper doesn’t flare. He only repeats himself, tone overly gentle and more fit for shooing away a mischievous pet than for the person he knows, as the door slides shut—noise low, reluctant, in the quiet of the room.

He doesn’t hear the sound of running water, faucet handle turned and more charade than necessity, but he doesn’t mind. Victor could listen by the door if he wished. For him, those details, or the lack thereof rather, don’t matter. They aren’t as important, aren’t as necessary everything else.

Should it matter to him the setting, the little bits and pieces, fragments chipping? Should it matter more than his own feelings, ignored and put off, shallowly buried yet valued less than gravel? Dirt?

That is who Victor is after all, boy plain and unremarkable in everything except his accomplishments, achievements numbering at less than a handful.

Awkward in speech and manner, face naturally plain and unsalvageable even by growth and adolescence, and acquaintanceship too new, lacking in the years that he and Piers have shared.

They aren’t a particularly good match in his opinion—too mismatched in a way that lacked both aesthetic and class.

There is no neatness to it, no equally palpable difference or similarity—heights differing too widely, difference owed to age; frames too similar, both too lithe and lacking in that particular, popular juxtaposition, broadness placed next to slenderness; and no shared history, no easily understood connection.

It isn’t neat, isn’t acceptably mismatched in a way that would draw public admiration rather than disgust and ridicule.

It isn’t like what he and Piers would be and that is what draws a sense of nausea and a bit of bile from his mouth, sour and bitter upon his tongue like curdled milk or perhaps spoiled yolk.

Should he not be the better choice? It would certainly make more sense, both more understandable and more palpable in every aspect—in the differences, in the similarities, and in the shared history.

Those are how stories are supposed to go, neat and easily understood.

When he steps forward, footsteps stopping beside the bed, Piers tenses, eyes flickering to the bathroom before returning to his face.

He doesn’t need to speak—Piers knows him well enough to understand what he would ask—and he doesn’t, Piers breaking the silence first once more.

“I like him,” he says, words plain and a bit rushed, eyes not quite meeting his and instead merely glancing over his shoulder. “He’s sweet, an—“

Explanation overwrought and rambling as if to justify, Piers isn’t especially understandable, thoughts backtracking occasionally and twisting, trite and unhelpful. Whether Piers means to justify everything to himself or to him, it doesn’t quite matter.

Certainly, it explains the circumstances, but it doesn’t solve the way he feels, doesn’t repair the cracks.

Outside of his age, Victor isn’t even all too special, not enough for him to stay, but still, there is a difference in knowing and a difference in seeing—face and reason given to everything, bits and pieces seen during rather than in the aftermath.

When he steps forward, Piers pauses, voice quietening, breath barely audible even as a hand comes to grip at his wrist, rough fingers pressing against the pale skin. Idly, he notes the slight thickness of Piers’s wrist and hand, tendons and bone not quite as sharply protruding as he remembers.

Even when his grip tightens, Piers doesn’t speak, doesn’t move outside of the rise and fall of his chest, motion not as languid as it should be; the slight shake of his hand, noticeable only because of their contact; and the flicker of his eyes, gaze once again moving to the bathroom door.

Piers has never quite looked at him, not directly anyhow—eyes always turned elsewhere or focusing on the space just behind him.

And he’s never quite talked to him, open and honest and without the spur of alcohol or rage.

Perhaps it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does—Piers has never been an open person, finicky and prone to moodiness—but Raihan finds his frown deepening, anger only stoked by Piers’s silence and his avoidance.

He’s never gotten a straightforward answer from Piers, only excuses, never an explicit refusal.

Leaning forward, Raihan presses his lips against Piers, jacket brushing against the bare skin of his chest and bed springs creaking underneath his weight, knees digging into the mattress.

Still no response, neither invitation or denial, neither push or pull. He only feels Piers tense, muscles tightening but body still not moving, and sees the same flicker, gaze still turned elsewhere and to someone else.

“Just tell me no,” Raihan says as he leans back, warm breath still brushing against Piers’s lips. “Tell me. Say something, _anything_. Please.”

Piers doesn’t respond even as his grip tightens, unintentional yet inevitable. He isn’t prone to anger—to abnormality—like Piers is. He’s _normal_ , amicable and easy to talk to.

He isn’t whatever Piers is, solemn and harsh and biting, teeth near-always bared in a snarl. Against whom? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think Piers knows either—anger existing solely for the sake of existing.

Thus, he doesn’t expect to feel a slight movement underneath his palm, bones shifting like beach sand and popping, motion drawing a pained noise, gasp not unlike the shrill shriek of a dying chicken.

But still, that isn’t quite the response he wants either—no refusal and no acceptance, only faint gasps, pained, and the same flicker, eyes turning not to his now limp wrist but toward the bathroom.

Even now, Piers doesn’t look at him, concern directed elsewhere and only heightening when the bathroom door slides open, hurried and lacking in the hesitation of earlier, footsteps moving toward them and to the bed.

“Victor, don’t.”

Despite the sharpness of Piers’s voice, there is no real anger, annoyance, in his voice, only the same concern of before, audible and open and honest.

Piers has never been honest, not with him anyhow, and perhaps that is why he finds himself leaving, hand lifting from Piers’s wrist, bed creaking as his feet meet the floor, and footsteps soft upon the wood, body stilling just before Victor.

To his credit, Victor doesn’t turn from him, gaze meeting his even as his shoulders tremble, blanket shaking lightly with each motion and marred skin visible from beneath the cotton, blemishes of reds and purples dotting the collarbone and chest.

Small and hapless, face indescribable as anything but mediocre and bland, qualities pieced together from leftover bits rather than the ideal or even the passable, Victor isn’t anything particularly extraordinary, personality too quiet and lacking in that particular grace, that particular allure, that constitutes remarkable or even simply average.

There is no interest, no affection or dislike, nothing comparable to love and hate, even as his hand comes to wrap around Victor’s neck, motion quick and heady pulse now thrumming underneath his fingers.

There is no reason for his actions, none that he would acknowledge, nothing outside of the noise of alarm that sounds behind him, bed creaking once more in a familiar hum, before fingers, Pier’s, come to paw at his back and neck, pulling at the cloth of his jacket and nails digging roughly into the skin.

Despite his frame and appearance, thin build owed to both nature and to a forgetfulness, food and drink oft overlooked in favor of work and habit, Piers isn’t especially weak, more deceptively scrappy than anything else, but he isn’t exceptionally strong either.

He isn’t strong enough, decisive enough, to stop anything—no phone calls, no calls for help, and strength lacking, motions impeded by a dislocated wrist.

Too considerate and too indecisive, that is who Piers is as a person.

There is no desire—no agitation, no curl of annoyance, anger smoldering, and no thrill—even as he pushes Victor downward, back thumping against wood, grip tightening enough to bruise, and small, gasping whimpers soft and fading, slender fingers weakly pushing at his wrist and sleeve.

He doesn’t _want_ to harm Victor, but he also wants an answer and _that_ is what drives him—the nails digging into his neck, drawing blood and the noise, not Victor’s, pitiful as it is, but Piers’s.

The repetition, a hurried, almost slurred chorus of “don’t,” and the eyes, panicked, looking directly at him, and the tinge of pain, a mixture of nails and force, limp hand thumping uselessly against a clothed back.

Certainly, Piers could do more. There are enough baubles lying about to hurt him with, but he wouldn’t.

Piers has never been a decisive person, too careful and too afraid of injuring, meticulousness harming more than aiding.

Perhaps it is a harsh judgement, but it is an honest one. He has been hurt enough after all.

When Victor’s eyes flicker close, unconsciousness almost overtaking, Raihan briefly loosens his grip, fingertips still grazing the weakly pulsing, now gasping throat, before tightening it once more soon after, motion drawing another nearly inaudible whimper from Victor and another slew of panic, noise and pain, his, mixing.

Though, despite everything—his response, his attention, and his touch, familiar—it Isn't enough.

It still isn’t an answer.

As his other hand moves to pull away the blanket covering Victor’s groin and thighs, he feels Piers’s hand move from his neck and to his hood, hand pulling with renewed vigor and force stretching the fabric, seams cracking loudly.

He doesn’t expect Piers to speak as he does then, another “don’t” perhaps and with the ferocity of a rabid dog certainly but not with his intent, definite and unyielding yet simple and plain.

“Stop.”

It’s an answer, one drawing pause and a loosened grip, wispy breath audible once more and thin chest below heaving, but it isn’t quite what he wants, not entirely.

It isn’t a “no,” damning and finishing and healing in its entirety.

He doesn’t stop even as he feels Piers tug once more, fabric stretching further; even as Victor draws another pained breath, neck bruised and collared by blushes of reds and purples; and even as he feels his elbow thrust backwards, hard bone meeting jaw with a resounding crack and drawing another thud, a strangled cry, and a crack, body having landed on an already injured wrist.

Perhaps he should turn then, look once more at Piers, but he doesn’t.

Why should he? He has always looked at him, gazed at a retreating back and sometimes at a halfhearted, ambiguous smile, more fit for a framed painting than for anything resembling a person, never the other way around.

More than anything, he thinks Piers should look at him, once and always forever more.

Thus, he continues, teeth clenching, breath coming in an agitated hiss, as a hand comes to pull at his hair, tugging roughly, red hair tie snapping in the scuffle and roots nearly pulled out, and as his elbow roughly comes to meet Piers’s face again—once upon the nose, twice upon the cheek, and thrice upon the chin before the hand in his hair loosens.

Piers isn’t unconscious—he could hear his words well enough, slurred as they are now—but he isn’t quite in the condition to move, frantically scrambling as before and purpose apparent.

Instead, his gaze is upon his back, harshly burning and noticeable even without turning.

Why should he? Piers has never turned for him.

Another faint shudder comes from beneath him, trembling, before Raihan loosens his grip again, hand still grasped around the neck. He isn’t cruel by any means. He doesn’t want to kill Victor. He has no interest in him, nothing that doesn’t pertain to Piers anyhow.

They, Piers and Victor, aren’t the same in the slightest. Victor isn’t the same even when compared to the Piers of thirteen years prior—face too plain, frown too inquisitive and naturally set rather than scowling and intentional, and sex differing.

He has no interest in him even as he pulls down his pants and boxers, hand moving to stroke his arousal further and to guide it to Victor’s entrance, gaping, sticky, and still dripping with the leftovers of his last encounter.

It isn’t the same when he enters him, motion drawing both whimpers and tears from Victor and a final, weak lunge from Piers, movement met with the same outcome as before.

No refusal and only the faintest of noise, soft and high, and only the faintest of movements, chest still heaving for air and body tensing, nails digging into the dirtied blanket.

It isn’t quite the same, but it isn’t entirely different either.

The same thrusts, the same faint noise, newly accompanied by Piers’s pleas, and the same tenseness, lacking in a firm refusal.

If he were anyone else, perhaps he would be ashamed about finishing early—cock rutting into a shaking body and filling an already filled and used womb—but he isn’t. He has no real interest in Victor after all.

Even when he withdraws, hand moving to wipe the remnants off with a bit of the blanket before pulling up his clothes, there is no interest, no desire to console or to jeer, only the same apathy.

Victor isn’t Piers nor is he the answer that he seeks.

It isn’t an answer even when he stands, moving away, and when Piers scrambles forward, blood dripping onto the wood flooring and voice repetitious—the same, slurred chorus, words now a vulgar repetition of curses—before a hand moves to draw Victor closer, fingers careful as to avoid the bruising and soon stroking comfortingly through his hair.

It isn’t an answer even when Piers turns to him, eyes cold, more bravado than anything genuine if the slight shaking is any indication, and mouth curled into the same, familiar snarl, and speaks, voice hindered by the swelling, pale fleshing purpling and bruised; the wrist pressing lightly against his nose, a poor attempt at stilling the trickle of blood; and Victor himself, small hands coming to wrap tightly around Piers’s chest before a fresh round of noise, tears, starts, obnoxious and shrill despite their relative quietness, a consequence of earlier.

“G-get out.”

Another simple, if stuttered, response and one that he expects—anger, hurt, and all. They’ve never stayed together, not on the nights when sex permeates the air, and Piers has never been a sociable or even simply, likable person.

Too demanding, too quick-tempered, and too neurotic.

Too violent.

But still, it isn’t an answer, not the one he wants, even as he complies, feet moving toward the doorway.

And in that, there is an irrationality to Piers’s anger. Should he not understand the reason for everything? The question has always been the same and the response always the same, unmet and unsaid until everything inevitably overflowed.

He should understand.

After all, it is his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually juggled a few different endings for this. Originally, it was going to be more verbal coercion with Piers being the recipient and just really "uncomfortable" with Victor having to sit and watch and just Piers comforting him throughout, but it didn't make much sense with the characterization tbh. It was a lot less "hopeful" than this one anyway, as hopeful as this one is anyhow. There was also a much longer sex scene, but it didn't fit into the idea of totality for me. If Raihan doesn't care, why would the sex scene be drawn out?
> 
> A big symbol in this fic is also eggs and birds. It's a reoccurring motif alongside the idea of the gaze. Though, the gaze acts as both a symbol and as another detail of what Piers and Raihan's relationship really is. There's a lot of details like that scattered about in this fic like the tight grip in the first chapter, the second chapter with the mention of bruising on Piers's collar (he is described as a person of routine after all, and those were never described as love bites. Though it depends on personal interpretation as well), and so forth.
> 
> Though, I think one of Victor's defining characteristics in this is his willingness to stay + a genuine good nature, so the ending is more bittersweet verging on bitter I think since I like to think Piers and Victor work it out. Victor is implied to be Piers's one good romantic relationship I think (which says a lot honestly...). I also kept Victor's canon age for symbolic reasons.
> 
> I don't believe in "true" happy endings anyhow...

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what I'll touch next. Maybe something spooky or horny? Or another "lampshade and sarcastic" fic like "Legality." I'm due for another one of those anyway.


End file.
